Walking a hill you’ve rolled down
Makes you see it differently.
To see where you tripped,
And the tumble started.
The rock where you hit your head—
The blade of grass that turned red.
It makes you clutch at the clump
Of your hair that’s grown sticky
And glance down at your green-stained jeans.
It’s an exercise in headstrength to think
“I won’t do that again.”
You know you will.
